Author Archive

It is becoming more and more obvious that the Universe revolves around me. My actions, my habits – even my stray thoughts – have an effect on every event today. And, since I haven’t liked the way things are working out, I might need to change what I do.

As a Jew, I believe very strongly in guilt. However, I don’t believe in confession; I believe in atonement. I’ve been 12-Stepped enough to know that the first part of making amends is to acknowledge when you’re at fault. So, here we go:

• Bernie Madoff was sentenced to 150 years in jail for exploiting people’s greed with his Ponzi scheme. Among his victims were a number of Jewish celebrities (like Steven Spielberg) and Jewish charities (including the one run by Holocaust survivor Elie Weisel). Madoff fits the worst stereotypes about Jews – greed, dishonesty, an arrogant sense of entitlement – and that is not good for the Jews. I, too, have wanted my investments to increase in value ahead of the rate of inflation. I will stop fantasizing over the current value of my apartment, my Dave McKean original paintings, and my lenticular collection.
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I like New York in June. How about you?

And one of the things I like most is the annual Gay Pride Parade that takes place on the last Sunday of the month (tomorrow!). It’s the culmination of a month of Gay Pride events, including parades in Queens, themed author appearances at area bookstores, and the incursion of happy gay tourists in Greenwich Village, Chelsea, and the city in general.

This year, there’s even more excitement than usual. Between the time I’m writing this (Thursday morning) and the time you can first read this (Saturday morning), the New York State Senate is supposed to vote on legalizing marriage between two people of the same gender.

Because our state government is even more dysfunctional than yours, I’m not holding my breath, nor messing with my deadline, waiting to see what happens. I’m kind of outraged that the civil rights of a group of people are subject to the vote of the legislature and not automatically protected by the Constitution. However, since I’m frequently awake and read the newspapers, I’m always kind of outraged.
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A lot has been said about the recent election in Iran and, since it’s not over yet, there’s a lot more yet to say. Before the polls opened, the race, between four different candidates, appeared to be almost evenly split between incumbet President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and his main rival, Mir Hussein Moussavi. For most of the week leading up to the election, each candidate attracted crowds of people – often hundreds of thousands of people – cheering him on.

It wasn’t like that for the whole campaign. At first, it was Moussavi who was the attention magnet. In fact, up until that point, this presidential campaign looked a lot like ours.

Now, I’m not going to say that Moussavi is like Obama and Ahmadinejad is like McCain. Both of them are supporters of the theocratic Iranian government, and both are committed to keeping Iran an Islamic republic. However, if we take the political philosophies out of the equation and only look at the way the candidates marketed themselves (or, more precisely, the way these campaigns were covered in the American media I saw), there were some striking parallels.
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Since I am, by choice, a dirty hippie Commie peace freak, many people assume i would be a permissive parent.  This is not true.  Two incidents that recently befell me (and, I’d imagine, millions of other people) illustrate why.
1.  My husband and I went to see Up, the new Pixar film.  We’re both avid animation fans, and have loved Pixar’s work since we first saw the short, Luxo Junior back in the mid-1980s.  We went to a mid-afternoon weekday show at a movie theater downtown, because we’re old and can’t stay up late, and it’s always deserted there.

This show was not completely empty.  There were about twenty people there, mostly adults, but a few people with children.

Usually, Pixar films are so compelling that children watch them with rapt attention.  In this case, however, there were two kids who were three years old or younger.  They talked, in loud voices.  One talked through the entire movie.  The other was so frightened that he made his father leave halfway through.
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Two recent events – the nomination of Sonia Sotomayor to the Supreme Court and the murder of Dr. George Tiller in Kansas – have crystallized, for me, what The Onion refers to as “Our Stupid Discourse.” These are both extremely important events, worthy to inspire serious conversation on the issues of life, death, race, judgement and responsibility.

But we’re not. Instead, we’re having a competition to see which group is most persecuted.

The popular political stereotype would have you believe that liberals and others on the Left claim victimhood as their own. So-called “Identity Politics,” in which groups define themselves as an oppressed class (such as “gay” or “black” or “female”) allegedly stifle debate by demanding “political correctness” (which, in my opinion, ends to boil down to a resentment from the other side that they can’t use derogatory terms, like “faggot” or “lady” without getting criticized for it). The Left, according to these arguments, expects the world to take care of the downtrodden, instead of teaching the downtrodden to take care of themselves.

That’s not the way these two debates play out. Let’s consider:

* Judge Sotomayoris an experienced juror with an impressive record. She graduated at the top of her class at both Princeton and Yale Law School. She was appointed to the federal bench by President George H.W. Bush, a man still recognized as a Republican.
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It’s been more than six months since I’ve been gainfully employed. It’s been tough, both emotionally and financially. It’s tough because I’m not the only person having this experience. While some economic indicators seem to say that the current crisis is slowing down, unemployment is still high.

The conventional wisdom isn’t working for me. I’ve spruced up my resume. I prowl the job boards. I keep in touch with those I know who have jobs and influence. I volunteer in several areas to expand my circle of contacts. My business cards are always with me. I keep myself looking like a professional.

In fact, I’m so busy trying to get a job that I don’t know if I’ll have time to get one. But that’s a problem I should only have.
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One of my first jobs was baby-sitting for a few hours every weekday morning. I was, I think, 13 years old. My charge was two. I was paid fifty cents an hour, which meant I earned enough money to buy a couple of new record albums every week. At the time, an album cost about three dollars. Getting paid to play on the swings was my idea of fun.

This is a long and roundabout way for me to explain how I met one of the world’s most fascinating people. The mother of my charge, the woman who was fantastic enough to give me money so I could buy Monkees albums, recently married Michael Dann.

I confess I had never heard of him before. As it turns out, he’s been one of the most influential people in my life. Starting in 1948, he worked in television – as a press agent, an executive and a programmer. He started at NBC when radio was making all the money, he worked with David “General” Sarnoff and Sylvester “Pat” Weaver. He made decisions about putting programs on the air when I was a kid and thought they came from heaven. When he was at CBS, he put Judy Garland and Danny Kaye in variety shows. He okayed “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour.”
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It’s probably no surprise that I’m an obsessive traveller. I’ve delayed writing this piece because I’m packing. How many skirts do I need? Shoes? What about dresses? Or a raincoat?

It doesn’t matter where I’m going, because I always fret. If the destination is someplace cold, I have additional worries about socks and sweaters, boots and hats.

As it happens, I’m going to Florida to visit my father. Maybe we’ll go see STAR TREK and remember how we used to watch it together when it was first on television and we were young.

Then, in two weeks, I’m going to Pittsburgh for my step-sisters wedding. A few months ago, I was also in Florida, and, you’ll recall, I was just in California seeing The World’s Best Boy, now grown-up to be the World’s Best Person.
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Tomorrow will be the first Mothers Day since 1981 I’ve had no mother to call.  I don’t have to worry about finding a florist who can deliver on Sunday.  And, since my boy is grown and far away, I don’t have to worry about whether to wear the necklace he made me out of rigatoni when he was three years old.

I still have it, of course.  I just don’t like to wear it because 1) it might get wet and disintegrate, 2) it doesn’t coordinate well with other elements in my wardrobe, and 3) it’s made out of rigatoni.

Of course, I miss having my son with me.  I miss my mothers even more.  After all, I can still talk to the boy on the phone, or IM, or Facebook.  I talk to the Moms only in my dreams.

But here’s the dirty little secret about Mothers Day:  We don’t deserve it.  Everything you hear about the sacrifices mothers make for their children?  It’s lies.  All lies.
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When I was a child, I remember a time before both Hawaii and Alaska achieved statehood. I pledged allegiance to a flag with 48 stars. I remember a time before color television. I remember a time before zip codes.

And I remember when there was no Free Comic Book Day.

Yes, those were barbarous times.

Free Comic Book Day was created so that people who didn’t read comics could sample them without risk. It was a way to get them into the store so they might consider becoming regular – or even occasional – customers. The price to give away comics can be high, but publishers participated by providing specially printed, low-cost copies. A person who would walk into a store, even if only to get something free, is presumed to be somewhat interested in the product. For example, you don’t see a lot of people lining up for free swine flu samples.
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According to the conventional wisdom, age brings a sense of proportion, and an increased awareness of our spiritual values.  Those of us on the other side of youth are supposed to understand that materialism is a trap, that beauty and relationships and experiences are what makes life worth living.

Yeah, sure.

My constant pimping of my recent birthday succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.  Not only did I receive a record number (for me) of greetings on Facebook, but I also got a Kindle.

I never thought I’d like it.  I mean, I love books.  I even love damp and moldy old books.  I love their smell.  I love different kinds of paper.  I love different fonts.  I love page design.  I like the weight of a book on my lap, sitting under a tree on a beautiful summer’s day.

As a result, I didn’t think I’d need a machine for my reading.  And, when the computer showed me how to do a lot of my newspaper and magazine browsing online, I didn’t think I needed another machine for books.

I was wrong.
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Those of you who read this column regularly know that tomorrow is my birthday. To celebrate, Mr. T. and I are going to Los Angeles to visit our son, because that’s my idea of the best time. In addition, we hope to be granted an audience with the Master Of The Universe, and maybe go to DisneyLand.

Unfortunately, this means we’re leaving New York City at my favorite time of year. There are tulips blooming in myriad hues. It’s still cool enough to wear a sweater. My favorite charity event takes place tonight (and you might still be able to get tickets). In order to brace myself to leave, I’ve come up with a list of reasons to hate New York.

You’ll notice that I don’t include the standard reasons cited by the rest of the nation, that the city is full of Commie pinko Jewish homo bankers. That’s my favorite part (except maybe for the bankers, but there are many fewer of them, and the ones that remain are so needy that they’re kind of cute). No, my list is more specific and more local.

10. Our mayor has so much money in his personal fortune that he is blanketing the airwaves with commercials for his re-election campaign even though there is no one running against him yet. How much more sick of him will I be when there’s a race?

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As this site’s resident Jewish mother (whom you never visit nor call), I feel it is my responsibility to honor this special time of year.  We’re in the middle of Pesach, or Passover, which honors the liberation of the Jews from slavery in Egypt.  The Obamas held the first Seder in the White House attended by the President.

It’s always been one of my favorite holidays.  The December when I was in first grade, our sweet, Quaker teacher (who had us reading the Bible aloud every day, despite the recent Supreme Court ruling) once asked us what holiday we liked best.  Most kids said Christmas or Hanukkah (there were only a handful of non-Jews in my class), and I said, “Passover.”  When she asked why, I said, “Because we get to dip parsley in salt water.”

As I’ve matured, I’ve expanded my affection to other aspects of the season.  Passover, like Easter, probably has its roots in pagan festivals that celebrate the life-affirming aspects of Spring.  Everything is newly green, sprouting, promising the pleasures of the summer.  Unlike Easter, Passover is a celebration of freedom.

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It’s no secret that I’ve been kind of whiney of late.  Just look at my last two columns.  However, as much as I like to complain, I can’t keep doing it.

For one thing, I’m really and truly blessed.  I have a husband who not only loves me, but rubs my feet on a regular basis.  My father is still alive and still cracking jokes. In two weeks, I’m going to Los Angeles to see my beautiful son for my birthday.  I have friends.  I have a home.  I have my health.

Yada yada yada.

It’s not that I’m not grateful for this important stuff.  I am.  It’s boring to talk about it, though.  And most of these things happen through no special virtues or talents of mine.  Many people have families, healthy bodies, and active social lives.  Many people appreciate that they have these things.  You can find these appreciations easily enough.
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Last Monday, I attended a workshop set up by my fabulous state to kick-start my job search.  Being a New Yorker, I walked in with an attitude (shocking, I  know), thinking I knew everything there was to know.  However, since I like to think I’m open-minded, I participated.  I listened.  I stayed for the next workshop on networking.

Part of the reason I stayed was the charm of the group leader.  He’s part of an organization that donates these workshops on a pro-bono basis.  It was more entertaining to be part of a workshop than to keep searching job-boards.  It felt more business-like.  It felt constructive.

He said my problem is a lack of focus.  This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this observation.

We went through the group and described the toughest problem we had ever solved.  Here’s mine:

In 1990, when I started at DC Comics, I learned that, in November, on the same day, there was going to be a new Robin costume and Clark Kent was going to ask Lois Lane to marry him.  This is a publicist’s nightmare, because it’s hard to promote more than one story at a time.  The impact of each is diluted.
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Since my favorite job ended on Halloween (oooh, scary!), I’ve had five interviews. Of those, two went with other candidates, one turned out to be a volunteer position that I’ll do as time permits because the group is awesome. One was a recruiter. That leaves one from whom I have yet to hear.

All have taken place in the last month.

According to the news media, first-time jobless claims are no longer rising at the frightening rate they were at the beginning of the year. At the same time, these same media report that retail sales have bottomed out, and might even be slightly higher.

Why is this?

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Spring is about to be sprung. Even us concrete-bound New Yorkers can tell. The first sign comes from the Mr. Softee trucks. Although one has been parked at Sixth Avenue and West Fourth Street all winter, we now find lines of people waiting for that first sweet taste. There are notices tacked to street lamps, announcing “No Parking Saturday” because there will be street fairs. When the days get longer and warmer, New Yorkers thoughts turn to socks for a dollar.

It is after I notice these cues that I notice more traditional signals. Tulips and daffodils start to push through the soil (a sight I find oddly sexy). Trees bulge with buds about to bloom. Forsythia is the market leader, the early adapter to this new day.

The thaw is invigorating. More sun means more heat. As the snow and ice melt, long buried piles of leaves and dog poop are revealed – and not just visually. The sweet smell of rot permeates the air, competing with the constant smells of curbside hotdogs and urine.

While I’m not much of a capital-C Communist (I did used to live on a commune, so I can’t deny the lower-case appeal), I always liked the quotation from Chairman Mao’s little red book, “Let a hundred flowers bloom, and a thousand schools of thought take root.” Although I suspect he didn’t mean it this way, to me, Mao’s version is a more visually appealing version of the First Amendment. In the spring, it’s inspiring to watch the new greenery, and hope each new blossom might be a new idea.

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Do you go to the movies or watch television? If so, you may have noticed that there is a plethora of stories about transgendered people. The movie, TransAmerica, earned an Oscar nomination (and Golden Globe award as Best Actress) for Felicity Huffman as an MTF (Male to Female) transsexual. Among many others, All My Children, all three CSIs, Dirty Sexy Money, Nip/Tuck, Ugly Betty, Cold Case, and, this past week, House, have featured transgendered characters.

Why do I notice this? Well, partly because I’m incredibly open-minded and progressive, and picking up on trends is my business. However, the more likely reason is that one of my best friends is transgendered. Pennie (whom long-time readers will recognize from the Comments section) was someone I dated briefly in college, then obsessed about for the next decade. When we got back in touch in the mid-1990s, we quickly became friends again, and, to my mind at least, flirtatious correspondents.

Then she came out to me. And then she had the surgery that made her body match up to her mental, emotional and spiritual self-image.

I thought it might be interesting if we discussed Pop Culture Transformers.

MT: First of all, I have to ask. Did you go through with this surgery because I was so terrible in bed that you wanted to eliminate even the slightest chance that we would ever have sex again?

P: LOL…not in the least. You, my dear were awesomely amazing. And for this horny lesbian, that’s something! But your question brings up a reality for transitioning trans people: we find that many close family and friends personalize the transitioning party’s experience. Assign the “change” to their own actions or lack of when in fact, for most trans people, a lifetime of experience has propelled them to their coming out. For others the news might appear shocking or harsh. For many of us, the act itself only comes after years of silent despair and self-doubt that crystallizes in a cocoon to butterfly burst and flight into day as Bruce writes and sings so well in “The Price You Pay.”

In my case, the surgery merely relocated some valuable real estate correcting a fault line that developed in utero. Think it’s easy having a pussy AND penis? Those people who told me to go fuck myself had noooo idea…}’;>)

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Sometime over the last few weeks, I became older than my mother.  She died three months before her 56^th birthday, and my 56^th birthday is about two months away.

It’s spooky being older than one’s parent.  I relied on my mother to set the example as to how a woman should act.  My mom was outspoken, passionate, active, obsessed about her weight, and opinionated.  She loved to laugh.  If she read about an album in the New York Times (a rare object in Youngstown, Ohio), she would go out and buy it.  I learned about the Beatles, Bob Dylan, the Lovin’ Spoonful and the Mothers of Invention from my mom.

Therefore, it followed that when I had my child, I would do a lot of the same things.  My kid listened to the Ramones as soon as he got out of the hospital.  He watched us argue with the television with such intensity that he would grin with glee whenever NBC anchor John Palmer appeared on the screen.  I put him in the Snugli and took him to see Geraldine Ferraro give a speech when he was four months old.  He slept through the whole thing, but he was there.

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Forty years ago (give or take), my mother infuriated me by signing me up for summer school.  She wanted me to learn how to type before I went away to boarding school, and the local high school had a class.  For three hours every day (9 AM till noon), five days a week, for six weeks, I sat in a stuffy, un-air-conditioned room with twenty other people, pounding away on a manual keyboard. Some vacation.

You kids today, with your music and your hair, don’t know anything about manual typewriters.  In order to form words on paper, you had to hit a key with enough force to depress a doo-hickey that would lift a metal stick with a letter on the end, forcing that letter to smack against a ribbon with ink.  If you didn’t hit it hard enough, you would simply move the carriage ahead without making a mark.  If you typed too fast, the various sticks would get tangled up and you’d have to disentangle them with your fingers.

Worst of all, if you made a mistake, you had to correct it, either by using Liquid Paper or another complicated correction method.  My favorite were the little pieces of paper that had white powder on one side, so that when you typed the same letter as your mistake, the powder filled in the mistake and you had a white space on which to type correctly.

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A week from today is St. Valentines Day. People will send as many as a billion cards via snail mail, perhaps giving the USPS a reason to live. Men will look forward to getting some loving from grateful women when they present the proper tribute. Florists and candy stores will be busy. Victoria’s Secret will be mobbed.

If you’re a straight woman in love, it’s much more difficult. There simply are no romantic gifts for men.

Think about it. If a man wants to make a woman swoon, he knows he should send her flowers at her office, where all her colleagues can see how much she is loved. If he’s smart, he’ll send several arrangements, scheduled to arrive throughout the day, each more spectacular than the last.

If he wants to melt her heart, he sends chocolates. This tells a woman that the man wants to increase her sensual pleasures. It says he wants to please her. It says he loves her just the way she is.

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When Republicans were looking for reasons not to cooperate with Democrats on President Obama’s proposed stimulus bill, they cited the $200 million plus to be used on family-planning programs.  “What does contraception have to do with stimulating the economy?” they demanded.

And thus was born a week of monologue jokes.  Go ahead, check out YouTube and ComedyCentral.com.  I’ll wait. We want the cheap laughs out of the way so we can go on and enjoy the finer, more expensive laughs you’ve come to expect on MichaelDavisWorld.com.

For reasons I don’t understand, conservatives don’t get the connection between birth control and financial prudence.  Let me lay it out for you (and, if my use of the word “lay” gives you the giggles, go back and read a few more jokes):  Women who can have babies on their own schedule have more productive careers.  They make more money, and they use the money they have to take care of their existing family members.  They pay more in taxes.  Children who are planned and wanted have fewer emotional problems.  They grow up, get jobs, and stay out of prison.

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Caroline Kennedy withdrew from the competition to be the next Senator from the state of New York.  Her public statement says that she does this for “personal reasons.”  The media speculate that she’s worried about her uncle’s health.

They’re wrong.  She’s doing it because of me.

Not many people know about our decades-long rivalry.  It started when we were little girls, Caroline in The White House in Washington, DC and me on Selma Avenue in Youngstown, Ohio.  She did cute things and got on network television.  I did cute things and got on “The Seaweed Sam Show” on local television for my birthday.

Everyone thought she was pretty, with her blonde curls.  My hair was getting darker.

And then, she got a pony.

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Is it Tuesday yet?

The week ahead of us will be an historic one. It’s the first African-American president. It’s the first time since 1977 that we’ve had such young children in the White House.

And it’s the first time we can be sure George W. Bush won’t be President any longer. Even better, it’s the first time Dick Cheney won’t be Vice-President.

It’s going to be a great, come-and-get-it day. You can feel it when you talk to people. According to the evening news, polls show that even people who didn’t vote for him, who disagree with him about issues, think Obama is competent and capable. When there is fighting in the Middle East, the pundits and reporters don’t go to the White House for comment. They go to Blair House.

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Today is the last day of the first full week of 2009.  It’s been revelatory.

Before the New Year, I wasn’t trying very hard to find a new job.  My resume needed work, and I didn’t think anyone would be hiring until after the holidays.  Starting Monday, January 5, I had no excuse.  I had to get serious.

This is so discouraging.

The unemployment rate is the highest it’s been since the early 1940s, when we fought a World War to lower it.  Now, we’ve got two wars going, and unemployment is still going up. We’re going to need a better way to bring it down.

Obama is, in my opinion, saying a lot of the right things.  We need to invest in this country, both to provide jobs and to improve the quality of American lives for the next century.  We need our roads and bridges rebuilt.  We need more schools for students of all ages.  We need renewable energy sources.

This is all well and good, but what’s in it for me?

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Maury Povich helped me be a better mother.

I don’t know the man, nor do I know his wife, the television journalist Connie Chung.  I’ve never been anywhere they’ve been, not even a crowded elevator in the NBC Building.

Nor do I have any real desire to make their acquaintance.  They may be very nice people, but they don’t really interest me, personally.

Several years ago, on a vacation from middle school, my son tuned into the Maury Povich show while I was working out on my elliptical trainer.  I was scornful.  I didn’t like talk shows where the audience screams at the guests.  If I watch a talk show, I want to watch talk, not taunting.  I can supply my own cheers and jeers.

And I did.  I explained my preferences to my boy, but he said that everyone at school watched the show.  “It’s hilarious,” he said.  So, because I was already sweating and didn’t want to mess with my rhythm, I watched.

The audience was screaming.  The guests were screaming.  It was difficult to understand what they were screaming about, since so much of what they were screaming was bleeped out.  After a few minutes, I figured it out.
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Some people divine the seasons by natural means.  They notice the angle of the sun in the sky, or the kinds of produce in season at the store, or the temperature.

Not me.  I can tell the season by the commercials on television.  This week, the Slim-Fast and Jenny Craig ads ramped up.  There are more and more ads for Nicorette gum and patches.  It must be time for New Year resolutions.

Much to the dismay of my occasional therapists, I’m not big on New Year Resolutions.  For one thing, which New Year are we talking about?  It seems like it was just Rosh Hashonah, when, as a Jew, I resolve to try to sin less and be more worthy of the blessings that are part of daily life.  Spring is also a kind of new year, when the trees sprout new growth, and the earth thaws.

What’s so special about January? Isn’t it just a convenience for calendars?

Even if I granted that this week does, in fact, mark a new year, I don’t entirely get New Year’s resolutions.  It’s not that I can’t improve myself, but my sense of reality is too strong.  I could, for example, resolve to lose 30 pounds.  I could even mean it.  But the chances are, I won’t, and it’s too discouraging to keep failing.  Instead, I can try to eat more locally, which will encourage me to eat more fruits and vegetables and less processed food.
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It can’t happen soon enough.How was your 2008?  Mine sucked.  I lost one of my favorite jobs that I ever had, thanks to the clunky economy and assorted other awfulness.  That’s not the worst thing, however.  Jobs come and go.  The economy will pick up someday, and I’ll work again.

The worst thing is all the people we’ve lost.

Every year, either this weekend or next, the New York Times Sunday Magazine is comprised entirely of essays about those who died in the last year.  It’s a tribute and a labor-saving device, since the articles can be written in advance, allowing writers, editors, production designers and the like to take time off for the holidays.

It’s sentimental and maudlin.  I hate it.  I love it.

I love it because obituaries inspire some of the best writing in journalism.  I hate it because they never get it right.  They might get the most prominent names, but they never get the people who mean the most to us (and by “us,” I mean “me”).
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The government has authorized $700 billion to bail out the financial industry, and it looks like there’s going to be several dozen billion to bail out Detroit.  And there’s the $10 billion or so we’re spending in Iraq every month.  Pretty soon, we could be talking about a lot of money.

Remember, just a few months ago, John McCain was pledging to balance the budget by cutting earmarks, a whopping $16 billion?  Those were good times.

Our government is throwing money at the financial crisis.  It worries me, because I don’t trust the people in charge who seem to feel they don’t have to explain what they’re doing with the money to the rest of us (I’m looking at you, Paulson).  On the other hand, people are hurting and we have to do something.

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With the lighting of the various ceremonial Christmas trees, in Rockefeller Center, Washington Square, Bryant Park and more, it is officially the holiday season.  Last night, as I walked home across Bleecker Street, the avenues stretching uptown were aglow with lights.  Store windows glisten with glitter, and the throngs of tourists carry ever-larger shopping bags as they stagger through my city.